


All the Lies You Find, All the Truth You See

by evening_spirit



Series: Communication 'verse [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Art, Artists, Canon Disabled Character, I told you this was not a happy fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-canon Mental Illness, Painting, Potential Triggers in Later Chapters, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Use of first names, Warnings Will Be Added as Needed, an appearance by Anne Bonny, an appearance by Eleanor Guthrie, an appearance by Jack Rackham, an appearance by Max, mention of eleanor/vane, mention of rackhmaxanne, painter Flint, pizza delivery guy Silver, sorry if they were too vague, there were hints, very slow actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_spirit/pseuds/evening_spirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SilverFlint modern AU. James McGraw, the famous painter, lost the love of his life three years ago in a traumatic event that resulted in severe agoraphobia. Now a young pizza delivery guy with dark curly hair and provocative attitude caught his attention. Maybe it's only a hunger for human company - any company - or maybe this encounter will change things in James's life. Either way, there's more to John than meets the eye, as James will soon find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lie (James)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a direct sequel to "If This Is Communication". I really can't tell if it's possible to read this one without reading the other, but if you haven't, you're free to give it a try either way. 
> 
> This story didn't feel like being a part of the previous one when I started writing it. I knew it would have a different format, different tone. What I didn't expect was that it would turn this long. But that's a good thing, I guess. :) I love you guys so much and I'm so grateful for the warm welcome that you gave me for "...Communication". This fandom is the most incredible group of people and I hope my contribution to the collective will be worthy of your amazing-ness. :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy. Even though there's still no explicit content, only angst... turned up to eleven.
> 
> * title from "The Gift" by INXS

 

Change sometimes comes gradually, over weeks or months. You do not notice it creeping up on you and then you get up one day and you realize that you are a different person than you were a year ago.

Other times you wake up and you know you're a different person than you were yesterday.

James woke up this Friday, came up to the window in his bedroom and slid the curtain open, allowing the eye-burning light of day into the room, for the first time in... He didn't even want to think in how long. Then he turned away from the sight, because looking at the green of the garden still choke the breath out of him. He took the shower, brushed his teeth, came down to the living room, where he repeated the same motion: the swing of the heavy material, the squint of bedazzled eyes. The retreat to a safer place. He marched through the whole house opening all curtains and all blinds in all the rooms, then he locked himself down in his study, dropped into an armchair, knees up to his chin, arms wrapped around them, and sat there, shaking, for the better part of an hour.

When the shivers subsided, he pulled the cover from the not-quite-a-portrait of the black haired pizza delivery kid. John. He stared at it for a few minutes. He still didn't know him well enough to finish that painting, did he?

The shape was John's. Curly hair, sturdy posture in shades of midnight blue and gray, cast against the backdrop of smears of orange and brick red. His head slightly cocked to the side as if curious - perhaps smiling? - but the figure's face was a blur. Hands on his hips implied boldness, body weight on his left leg, the right one bent in a lose stance. A pose of an outgoing man, intent on charming the world.

James grabbed a wide brush and dipped it in paint. With one gesture he smeared a shadowy smudge over John's leg.

It did not make the painting complete, not at all, but James wasn't going to continue working on it. If he were to really paint a portrait of John, he would have to start completely anew.

He threw the cover sheet over the painting again and took the new, empty canvas. Closed his eyes and remembered the lake they visited with Thomas and Miranda that hot summer, right after they'd come to live in LA. Mountains in the background, the forest on the far shore. Shimmering sunlight. He started painting.

Sometimes he would lose track of time when engrossed in his work. He wouldn't need any food, any water. Any movement other than that of a brush against the canvas. He immersed himself in the world being shaped into existence; his soul roaming free out there, in that unbound space, breathing in fresh air and absorbing the rays of the sun.

Until someone came to save him, to bring him back, to lock him inside his too tight, constricted head. That someone was always Miranda, even though they no longer lived together. She would still check on him at least daily, but she couldn't live under the same roof, not without Thomas. James understood. He couldn't either.

"What happened yesterday?" she asked after she'd finally dragged him to the kitchen and sat him in front of a cheese-and-pear salad she'd gotten from that little non-chain place near the hospital. "You didn't say a word."

James occupied himself with devouring the meal. It was not all pretend - he was hungry, after all he hadn't even had breakfast this morning. But in all honesty, he stalled.

What was he supposed to tell Miranda, that he'd fallen in love? How would she take it? He couldn't.

But she was worried. She knew to give him time; when she'd visited yesterday and he hadn't spoken to her at all, she hadn't pushed. She understood those things, she was a doctor after all. But given the state she found the house today, all windows unveiled, patches of sunlight dancing on all the surfaces, stark shadows and dizzying contrasts – she had to know the reason and James had to abide.

"I spoke to him yesterday," he admitted, meeting Miranda's gaze. "I spoke with John."

"John?"

"That kid, you know. Pizza delivery kid."

"And?" she mouthed more than spoke. "What?"

Guilt and remorse crushed James's heart. Wasn't what he was feeling right now a betrayal of Thomas's memory, of their memory?

"Days are hot," he said, his throat dry like a parchment. He never lied to her. "He just wanted some water. I don't know, maybe he wanted something else, but that's what happened. I gave him a glass of water, we talked for several moments. About the weather, the summer. He left."

"But it prompted you to—" Miranda made a vague gesture indicating the windows, the garden outside, so much green.

James closed his eyes against the invading shrubs. At least they were dense and provided yet another boundary between the safe interior and what was out there. He focused on calming his breathing. Felt Miranda's cool hand on his.

"He's someone else, you know," she whispered. "Someone other than me, or Charles, or Hal. Or those other artist friends of yours. A stranger, a true stranger. I told you talking to someone other than the safe few you know, talking to someone without the cushion of our presence, would help you."

But it wasn't just that. It wasn't just talking to a stranger. James opened his eyes and looked at Miranda. Seeing her smile, tears of relief in her eyes, it was physically painful. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. He hated to deceive her. But he feared that the truth would hurt her worse.

He couldn't wait until next Thursday, counted days, then hours, until he would see John again. Some silly childish part of him wanted to invite him inside and show him the change, tell him, See what you made me do! He wouldn't do that, of course. But maybe John would notice. That would be enough.

When the doorbell rung on Thursday afternoon, James had to take a moment to calm his heart. He didn't want to appear too excited in front of this kid, couldn't let him get the upper hand that way. Face schooled into a bored mask, he opened the door and, instead of the kid, he saw a quirky guy with thin mustache, fancy sideburns and extravagant taste in fashion, who held two pizza boxes.

John had said not to expect him and apparently he'd meant it. But why? Why?

The obvious answer would be that he had, in fact, gotten hurt in that fall. James never took obvious answers at a face value though. No, his mind provided other, more elaborate explanations for John's absence. What if John, having met him, decided this was not worth it, that James was not worth it? That old recluse was too creepy and he wouldn't be bothered.

A week later he called Max's Tavern to place his order, but instead only found himself asking, "Is John there?"

The woman on the other side hesitated.

"No," she disclosed eventually. "He's not back yet."

James couldn't tell if he heard something other than polite indifference in the woman's  voice. And if there was more – what was it? Worry? Or reluctance? Aversion even?

Did John avoid him? James would have avoided himself if he could. Damaged goods, that's what he was.

Within the next week he'd come to terms with the fact that he'd never see John again. He was used to loss, he had experienced his share, and this one wouldn't even begin to itch, compared to those that mattered. James was a grown up man and he could get over this crush as quickly as he'd let it take the better of him.

He had to admit to one thing about John though – the kid gave him courage. Courage to open the curtains, courage to look at the world outside – even if he still kept at least a few feet away from the windows at all times, so he could have the walls that framed them well within his field of vision. And lastly, the courage to think about the future in terms of maybe possibly taking another step. A step outside. One day. In the future.

"You are making progress." Miranda encouraged the change.

"Unhurried though it is." They had tea in the living room, Miranda seated on the couch and James pacing back and forth in front of the low table, his drink getting cold. He stopped six feet from the window, his back to Miranda. "I tried opening the window today." He gestured at the offending item, as if it would yield before him shaking his fist at it. "Didn't work as well as you might think, almost gave myself a panic attack."

"Don't rush it," Miranda said with unyielding patience. "And you shouldn't do it when you're alone."

James resumed pacing. She was right, of course she was right. He had to give himself time, he shouldn't beat himself up over setbacks, he should be happy with small successes. But he wanted more.

"I can't understand how I was able to get out of the house then." He ran his hand through his hair. "Get out, help him up, help him walk in."

Miranda's faint "What?" didn't even register.

"It's been four weeks. If I were really making progress, I should be able to do more than just look outside the window from six feet inside the room." He turned to the window again and spread his arms in a hopeless inquiry.

"When were you outside?" Miranda breathed out.

James glared at her. Fear and remorse crept up his throat. "Four weeks ago." He shrugged.

"You didn't say."

"I didn't say many things."

He had to explain. He owed it to her, he should have been honest from the start and now... James walked to the couch in hasty few steps and sat beside Miranda. He took her hand in his.

"I am sorry," he said, searching for her eyes. She met his gaze, trustful, honest. The opposite of what he had been. "I was confused. As you said, he was the first real stranger I talked to, since—" a beat, "since Thomas died," he completed the sentence in a whisper. "For that reason he felt— I don't know. Special. And I thought I fell in love with him."

Admitting to that feeling, somehow, didn't make the world end. Didn't make the sky fall on their heads. Miranda still sat there, her palm in both his, her eyes on James's face. Smile dancing on her lips.

"And what's wrong with that?" she asked.

James watched her, comprehension some distant, foreign idea.

"You said it like it was something wrong, that you fell in love with him," Miranda clarified. "I am asking, why would it be wrong?"

"What about Thomas?"

Her brow furrowed and lines around her mouth deepened. She lifted her other palm to touch his cheek.

"He's dead," she whispered. "Do you think he'd want you to miss him forever?"

"What about you?"

"What about me? We are not bound together, James. I was bound in marriage with Thomas. I loved him and he loved me. What he and you shared, it was exceptional. You and I though?" She shook her head with sadness. "We had Thomas. And now we have the memory of him. You don't owe me anything besides."

"But— I thought we—"

"We are friends. Perhaps more, a family. And we always will be. But you need more, James. And, it seems you finally begin to open yourself up for that possibility. Maybe it's John. Maybe it will be someone else, but you want this and that's alright. You deserve this. If you ever thought I would stand in the way of you loving anyone— James. It's not me. It's perhaps your subconscious still trying to keep you trapped in the past."

"Huh? Are you sure you're a surgeon, not a shrink?"

"I had to learn, James. And I too have my weekly sessions with Hal."

It was the truth. She had been through the same loss. Perhaps not the trauma, she hadn't been there, she hadn't held his head in her lap as his body was wretched by agony. But she loved him and she missed him and now she had the responsibility for James's damaged existence.

James looked up at Miranda, trying to put to words what he felt, but he got interrupted by a doorbell.

He started, like it was a canon shot, his heart beating so fast, he was afraid it would erupt from the sheer force. He was not expecting anyone.

It was Thursday though, he realized, and it was just past five pm. Like a clockwork. Like every week for three months, before it had suddenly stopped. It couldn't be John though, could it?

"Do you want me to get it?" Miranda asked seeing his anxiety and James nodded, but  then he stood up and followed her out of the living room, curious.

No more than two weeks ago he had expected John at his doorstep. Why, then, wouldn't he today?


	2. Truth (John)

John had nothing to lose. It's not like he had a reputation to uphold. And if he had, it was not a reputation of a well-mannered, modest, dime-a-dozen-John, who respected other people's boundaries. Quite on the contrary.

So, it was fitting that he would impose himself on another man, whether said man wanted his advances or not. Actually, if he didn't, John could make him change his mind with a few carefully chosen words, an appropriate smile, or, in an extreme situation, a touch of more elaborate manipulation.

Freckles though, it seemed, was not opposed to John. At least he had not been, not at first and if John feared anything right now, it was that he had missed his window. But– the situation was not hopeless. None ever was and John strongly believed that every mistake could be fixed.

Well, not every single one, but repercussions of those that couldn't – John happily ignored.

Despite no longer working at Max's, he showed up at the Tavern that Thursday.

"John!" Max raised her beautiful eyebrows. "What are you doing here?"

John spread his arms in pretend indignation. "What do you mean what I'm doing here?"

She put her hands on her hips and pursed her beautiful lips.

"I told you, when you quit, that there would be no take backs. I have already hired a replacement on your position."

The decision to leave his job at Max's Tavern had been made in haste, true. But John's reasons were valid and Max wasn't going to give him any hard time for it, she had made that clear. Jack had been the one who'd taken offense.

"You're absent for two weeks, come back for a week and then you resign?" He had argued, but not for long. Usually Jack did what Max and Anne told him. Besides, he would hate it if anyone considered him an asshole and both Max and Anne, upon hearing John's explanation, offered their support. It didn't mean they would pamper him in any way – theirs was not a charity endeavor, but then, he didn't expect anything of the sort.

"I came as a customer today, Max." John beamed at his former boss, closed the distance between them and kissed her on the cheek before she could protest. "Can I place my order now?"

"Anne is over there." Max waved her finger, pretending to be displeased and failing miserably. She liked him. But then, John Silver was a hard man not to like.

Anne's usual spot was at the register. When she saw him, her eyes widened and lips curved upward for a fleeting moment. It was more than she would give him on an average day for two years he'd worked with her.

"We miss you 'round here," she said and that was more of an affection she had demonstrated probably ever.

Anne was not the shy one per se, but she was closed off and rough, and sometimes expressed her friendliness in ways people who didn't know her, would consider rude rather than friendly. Her saying something actually nice gave John goose bumps. For the first time he thought that maybe leaving this place was a bad idea. He'd found home among these people, in a weird way.

"What will you have?" Anne asked and there it was, the familiar roughness back in her voice.

John swallowed a lump in his throat. "Sicilian large and Milano medium with extra garlic," he said. "To take out."

He didn't have much to do after that, but sit and watch Billy prepare his order. Billy, his best friend, his brother-by-choice, kneaded and swirled the dough and hummed some indistinct melody John probably knew, but wasn't able to name at the moment.

"What?" It only took two minutes of such blatant display of contentment to get John unsettled.

"Nothing." Billy shrugged, but his smile was telling. "Just glad to see you back on your feet. So to speak. You know."

"Don't" John warned.

Billy knew more about him than anybody else in the world. Entirely too much, John was convinced. They had been friends on-and-off since, as kids, the authorities had shuffled them from one foster home to another. They'd meet intermittently when no one had wanted either of them, had written letters when someone had and, finally, as they'd reached adulthood within a few months of each other, they'd moved in together and had been a family ever since. Twins from different parents.

With Billy, John could be vulnerable. Except when he didn't want Billy to worry about him, moreso, because Billy had more than enough reasons for concern in the recent weeks.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing." John lowered his voice in a manner that was supposed to seem confidential.

Billy had nagged him about Freckles. From the beginning, from the first time John had delivered the order to the house of that bizarre, yet ruggedly handsome guy, he had confessed to Billy that he'd had every intention of getting him laid. It had been meant in part as a joke, other part a boast – and subsidiary to the man's preferences obviously – but in four months that had passed since, John's calculations had only proven to be more and more erroneous and his intents un-met. Lesser man would have probably given up by now, but not John. When John set his mind to something, he would either get it, or die trying. Or make a complete fool of himself at the very least.

Thing was, John had almost succeeded. He'd gotten his chance to finally speak to Freckles but the opportunity had come at a price. He hadn't been able to walk for two weeks after and also, his whole life had taken a nose dive, but that was one of those things he opted to ignore.

So. Freckles. Apparently he had demanded John delivered his order two weeks ago, when John'd still been incapacitated. A week prior they had sent Rackham and the man freaked out. But then, no one could be blamed for freaking out at the sight of pointy sideburns, pink round shades and frills literally everywhere. John would have freaked out, if he didn't know – and appreciated – Rackham's extravaganza. No surprise the client demanded his usual delivery guy. But then, next week, when John had come back to work, Freckles hadn't called at all.

Of course Billy had been the one to relay some of the news and turn the rest into a sensation. John suspected that Billy simply wanted him to occupy his mind with something and he couldn't be blamed for that. In fact he soon realized that he appreciated Billy's attempts at matchmaking, in a strange way. Turning this – this potential relationship with a physically attractive, and emotionally and mentally fascinating older man – into his life's goal, could be what he needed right now. So he threw himself into it.

He knew what he was doing, of course, but letting Billy think John relied on his amazingly supportive friend, would go a long way toward restoring Billy's peace of mind.

"Don't think too much about it, man." Billy gesticulated with his flour-coated hands, sending specks of white powder flying. "Just go out and be yourself." He hesitated. Glanced up at John. "Of course I am aware that being yourself and not thinking too much are, like, mutually exclusive, but you know what I mean, right?"

"I think I do. You want me to just let things happen."

"Which you never do."

"Yeah. No, I don't."

"And you have a plan already, you only say that you don't know what you're doing to make me think you're a normal person." Billy did get him far too well.

John spread his arms in a 'How did you guess?' expression. "I don't exactly have a plan," he clarified. "I have a vague outline."

Billy shook his head and sighed. "Just have fun, okay?" He focused on throwing peppers and onions and Italian salami on the tomato-sauce-coated dough.

John figured it best to stop talking as well, because he was only making things worse. He resorted to watching Billy, dusted off flour spots from his chest – they didn't add any dignity to his perhaps too uptight dark polo shirt – and then his overactive mind started to conjure up all possible scenarios he might encounter at Freckles's house. Billy was right, he couldn't shut this part of himself off, and just let things happen. He needed to be prepared for any eventuality.

So. Freckles might be glad to see him or he might be indifferent, or he might just shut the door in his face. He might not open at all, or someone else might open. The latter was actually the most plausible – after all, even back then, four weeks ago, Freckles had been waiting for someone else to visit. He might decline John's offer politely, or he might laugh him off. Or he might call in authorities to arrest John for stalking. Anything might happen, really, and John prided himself by never being the one caught off guard.

He wasn't this time either, as could be predicted. The door opened and he saw a woman.

Beautiful in that dignified, elegant way one might associate with high-born British ladies, or otherwise women possessing great confidence founded in experience and position, she greeted him with an inquiring look. She must have been around the same age as James – under her scrutiny John stopped thinking about him as Freckles right away – had her dark hair pulled back from her face and watchful hazel eyes. Her lips seemed accustomed to smile, perhaps a forced one though, because deep lines around her mouth suggested melancholy rather than happiness.

"Can I help you?" she spoke and John knew five new things about her just from the tone of her voice. She was indeed British. She would protect James with everything she had. That John could infer from her pose as well – she stood with one hand on the door-frame, the other on the handle, door only cracked enough to expose her figure which completely blocked the interior. She wouldn't be easy to reason with, had their goals collided, because she was lethally smart. But, John was quite certain he could bring her to his side with ease simply because, for some reason not yet revealed to him, she had a favorable attitude toward him.

He didn't know who she was, though. What did she mean to James, was she his friend, his family or his lover? What was the nature of their relationship?

He intended to find out.

"Hello," he lowered the timbre of his voice and made it sound just this side of flirty, still respectful, but crossing the line. Meant to irk her, or endear her to him; either would work. "My name is John Silver and I happen to be looking for James Flint."

The woman tilted her head to the side, fleetingly amused, like he said something funny, then her face brightened in a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes .

"I see you brought pizza." She pulled the door open fully.

"My treat."

"Good, because we didn't order." She turned and John followed her gaze to see James standing right there, in the middle of the foyer.

John's breath caught at the sight of him – still freckled, no surprise there. A little on the disheveled side. Restless, hands rigid at his sides, fingers twitching. Gorgeous in his 'ready to charge if threatened' mode. His hair was loose today, tangled ginger strands falling into his eyes and curling around his cheekbones. Eyes themselves were greener than before, if that was at all possible. He wore white button-up with a collar, unbuttoned of course, almost half way down his chest and blue jeans that enwrapped the curves of his thighs in a way John could find fascinating. In a way he found fascinating, actually.

John realized he was gaping when the woman said, with a hint of good-natured mockery, "So, he's your pizza boy." As John looked back at her, she smirked and added, "Nice hair." She spun on her heel and disappeared into the living room. Left John to wonder if she expected him to feel offended by her comment. He didn't, obviously, feel offended. The remark may have been degrading, but more importantly it meant she underestimated him and this – suited his purposes.

He met James's eyes. Neither of them spoke and John, in a moment of uncharacteristic perplexity, found himself hesitant whether he should make the first gesture or wait for the host to initiate the conversation. The woman returned before he thought about all pros and cons – with a purse in her hand.

"Would it be okay, then, if I went back home?" She didn't even glance in John's direction anymore. "I have that paper on bone grafting that I really should read, so... Is that okay?" She was entirely focused on James as she asked the question and John was glad that he hadn't spoken up. He was not yet invited. She was still standing guard and would only let it down if James gave her a go ahead.

Would he let her off? John suddenly felt awkward, like a schoolboy outside the Principal's office, waiting for the teachers' verdict, watching them discuss his fate through a glass and unable to hear what's being said.

James looked at his friend and it was as if some silent, almost telepathic communication passed there, between them. He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. She let corners of her lips rise up a millimeter and blinked twice. He shrugged. She closed the gap between them, touched the side of his face and kissed him on the cheek – the one turned away from John. Possibly she whispered something in his ear. He sighed and nodded, reached for her arm the moment she turned and let his hand fall, empty.

The woman came to John – to the door, really, but she had to pass John, because he still stood there, in her way. He tried to step aside, but she grabbed his elbow.

"It's James McGraw, actually." Oh! "Flint is his artistic pseudonym," she said under her breath, but John heard: I know him and you don't, but I decided to trust you with him. For now. If you do anything to cause him even an itch, though, I will find you and I will end you.

And then she was gone.

Now, he was invited.

It took a lot of self control for John to not heave a sigh of relief and reveal how jittery he felt.

Because this, the face-off with James's self-appointed protector, was just a prelude. Real games were about to begin and James – who had gone through some strange transformation while John was receiving that unspoken threat – now glared at him like he knew exactly where his head was at. His lips twisted, teeth bared in something that might be considered a smirk, if it wasn't so damn threatening.

"Milano is actually Miranda's favorite." He reached for the boxes in John's hand, voice dripping with sarcasm. So he was going to ridicule him. Alright, John could deal with that.

"What makes you think I don't like it?" he matched James smirk for smirk and handed over the pizza. "I brought beer too. Didn't know what kind you liked, so I got my favorite."

"I don't drink actually." James turned and led John into the living room. "Alcohol messes up with my antidepressants," he deadpanned and John felt an unpleasant twist in his guts. That, he didn't take into account.

James set the boxes on the low table, then leaned to grab two tea-cups – one of them still filled with dark liquid – and a plate of hard cookies. "I'll be right back, will get the glasses and plates." Mockery never faded from either his tone or the gleam in his eyes. "You make yourself comfortable."

He set the tone. John wasn't even surprised by that; the same thing had happened before. The same thing had been happening over and over, throughout all of their encounters. They had always been on James's terms and John was now struck by a thought that perhaps this was the reason he'd been so drawn to him. Because he couldn't set the rules and that never happened, with anyone else. When confronted with people, John could play them like a fiddle. He'd wanted to see if he could play James. And so far James had never even let him try.

It occurred to John that, actually, James might be able to play him and that idea was both perversely fascinating and terrifying all at the same time. John couldn't let anyone dictate the conditions of their interactions.

Now, he had all of twenty seconds to get his wits about him and really make that plan Billy assumed he'd already had. It was a challenge. But John was nothing if not a sucker for challenge.

So. Plan.

The goal? Fuck Freckles. That's what he'd first come here for and that's what he was going to get.

The means? The usual, some small talk, perhaps getting under his skin a little, gentle but steady decrease in distance. Turn up the charm to eleven.

The obstacles? Well, this might prove to be a problem. Freckles was agoraphobic, it was hard to gauge what was his attitude toward physical proximity. John needed to be careful when testing his limits. Had to precisely balance it out.

First he took in the room – open curtains, that was something worth attention, he filed it for later, for the 'getting under his skin' part. Windows took up almost all of the wall opposite to the entrance, from the floor to the ceiling. Probably at least one of them was actually a balcony door leading to an unused terrace. He noted some dirt and clumps of grass growing between the tiles, but the outside was of no concern for now. Inside the room, bookshelves, lots of bookshelves covered up most of the wall on the left and they were filled with lots and lots and lots of books. Also a topic to be used later. No tv or computer in the room. In the wall on the right, painted pale olive, two doors led to an adjoining area, presumably a kitchen, because that's where James disappeared to. Between those doors boasted a fashionable, modern, state-of-the-art fireplace that was obviously operational, except not in summer. The middle of the room was occupied by a low table. A sand-colored leather couch stood along the bookshelf wall, at a distance enough to comfortably walk through behind it. Two arm-chairs completed the set, one with its back to the entrance, the other to the window. There was no carpet, dark teak-wood floor seemed warm enough anyway. John didn't notice any plants and no pictures adorned the walls, but an elaborate sculpture of some unidentified object, black, shining and bejeweled with specks of what might be green jadeite, decorated the fireplace.

John catalogued it all in a blink of an eye. He didn't have time to go into particulars; James could be back any second and he still stood in the entrance, like some intimidated schoolboy.

James had told him to get comfortable. Presumably that meant taking a seat – John walked the few steps to the armchair and brushed his hand against the leather. It felt as soft as it looked.

Where should he sit though? Would one of the chairs or the couch make it easier to get nearer, faster. Would the window be a problem? The last time John had been here, all the windows had been covered. What had changed and how much had it changed?

He had no idea. He knew absolutely nothing and the only clues about James's behavioral patterns he had so far, were from their earlier encounter – when his mental faculties hadn't been at their finest – and from James's interaction with, what was her name? Miranda.

They'd had tea here before John interrupted. He closed his eyes and remembered the setting of the cups. The nearly emptied one that wore a trace of lipstick had been placed at the longer side of the table, on the left. The untouched one had been on the right, nearer to the entrance. Miranda had sat on the couch then, closer to the window, and James's place had been near the entrance, but had he sat there at all? It would give him the view of the outside, could that be why he didn't? Had it made him uncomfortable? It couldn't be touch, not in her case, they were close and she shouldn't have a problem to share space with her. But with John? Wouldn't it require a tighter relationship?

No.

That was it, John was too stressed, he was trying to get too far ahead of himself, when the solution was so simple, it staggered him when he realized what he should do. He needed to leave the initiative to James. He only needed to take his cues from him, at least at the beginning. The man clearly craved command and if John pretended to be nice and compliant, it would quieten down his vigilance. At the same time it would allow John time for observation, analysis, conclusions and then, when he'd have all the cards, that's when he would strike.

Good. John was going to have James wrapped around his finger before the evening was over. And if some small part of him would rather things turned out differently, John firmly clamped a mental hand over its imaginary mouth. He was not going to let some random stranger get the better of him. Ever.


	3. Truth (James)

 

It all happened so fast. Here he was, confessing to Miranda that two weeks ago he had been in love with the pizza delivery kid, but no longer was and she was convincing him that he could, if he wanted, be in love with whomever he wanted and then... John showed up at his doorstep out of nowhere and Miranda left and where was this going?

James prodded his heart carefully to find out exactly what feelings he had for John. Was it infatuation? Not quite, he moved past it. Fascination? Maybe. Curiosity was the closest he could come up with. Excitement with John's novelty. Joy. He enjoyed being around John, even if the minutes they'd spent in each other's company wouldn't amount to an hour.

It was time to change that now, wasn't it? It was time to get to know each other, to verify those early emotions and, maybe, to get closer. Physically close even? The mere idea brought up contradictory responses in James's body – as if his sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems fired off all at once. His skin prickled with longing and constricted at the same time, trapped him like inside some tight protective shell.

It was too early to plan that. James wasn't ready, perhaps wouldn't be ready for a long time. Oh, he wanted to be and he was aware that's probably what John was after; he remembered himself at that age, and sex was pretty much all he could think about, but some things couldn't be rushed. John was going to have to deal, or get lost.

James took a deep breath, then exhaled a lungful. He didn't want John to get lost.

He put two tall glasses, two plates, two sets of cutlery and a pitcher of water on the tray and carried it to the living room. Found John standing next to the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, but his nose so close to the sculpture, it almost touched it. That made James stop dead in his tracks.

"Is it glass?" John inquired, either oblivious or ignoring James's horror at the prospect of the masterpiece risking damage. James may have hated the author, but his art had no equal. "What does it portray?"

"It's the Devil. By Edward Teach." Of course the name meant nothing to the kid. "Shall we sit down?" James asked with a dose of urgency.

John straightened up, obediently, but his expression was far from serious. Like it was all a joke to him. He ambled through the room, prattling on about how he liked the house, how it was cozy and designer and did James like to read? He didn't seem to expect any answers though, instead mused about how he never had the time to read these days, even though he used to enjoy it way back when – as James set the table.

With certain surprise James realized that it did not annoy him. Melodious quality of John's little nonsense-spouting had a soothing effect and James found himself watching the kid out of the corner of his eye. He wore a midnight blue polo and ash-colored jeans and James forced himself to not read too much into this choice of colors. And no, he didn't look at John's leg, he was not one of those people. John's arms-long hair were loose and ridiculously curly. He grinned at James like he knew exactly that James wondered how they would spring under his touch.

James ground his teeth. He gestured to the couch and John squinted at him, so he sat first, holding back an irritated shake of his head. What was it about, he wondered briefly and next second he knew exactly what it was about. John aimed for a seat next to him and James's whole body tensed, fists balled, breath hitched. It was a minute reaction, one he could control; he made himself appear relaxed in a blink of an eye – but it was too late. John noticed and changed his mind, took the armchair instead. The move was abrupt. His bad leg must have caught at a wrong angle and he tripped and tumbled into the chair like a proverbial sack of potatoes.

He attempted to put a distance between them for James's benefit and James wasn't sure if he should appreciate it, or be irked. The indecision must have shown on his face, because next moment John burst with laughter.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm such a klutz sometimes." James couldn't help and cast a fleeting glance at John's leg. Of course, John noticed that too. He probably wanted to draw attention to it anyway. "I wear a prosthesis," he said like it was the most normal thing in the world. It probably was, for him, but James scoffed as if this explanation was not necessary. He wasn't staring. At all. John didn't buy it. "It's okay," he added in a gentle tone. "I don't mind. You may ask about it." Maybe he wanted to expose himself this way. To show that he too had a vulnerability, that they were not so different, James with his reluctance toward intimacy and John with his physical handicap. He did it with such ease that James couldn't even feel offended or patronized. They were both human, it was as simple as that.

"I may?" he grunted. "Alright, I-" He couldn't tell he felt entirely comfortable with the idea of prying into another man's private affairs. John tried to make this situation less awkward, though, so the least James could do was to make an effort as well. "I'll remember that," he offered and opened one of John's beers. Poured it for him, then some water for himself. "Is it better now?" he asked. This, at least, was a natural question given John's fall the last time they'd met. In an attempt to divert attention, he kept himself occupied with host duties. Put aside the smaller pizza box and opened the one with Sicilian. "You like hot peppers?"

"I do." John took a slice. "And yes, it is better."

"Did you sprain anything? Or… What was it?"

"Oh, no. It wasn't sprained. It's--" He blinked a couple of times and his mouth set. It seemed this was the question he wasn't entirely prepared to answer. "It was hot and the socket-- the inside of the liner actually. Well in that weather it gets--" Halted sentences made his discomfort evident and James regretted asking, but suddenly John took a deep breath and his bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "It is unpleasant and, really, the details are rather gross. So. Not a best subject for a first date." His cheeky grin was back. "This is a date, right?" He pulled a lock of hair behind his ear and blinked twice, seductive.

James squinted at him, startled by this change.

"It may be," he neither confirmed, nor denied.

John made the transition seem so smooth and James realized he wanted it to be a date. A weird kind of date, the anxious part of his mind provided. A date inside his home, with no preparation on his part, with a damn pizza as food. James squashed that part with all his might. It was a date, lack of preparation notwithstanding. He didn't need to have doubts about it.

John bit into his slice, chewed and shook his head. "This isn't the best kind of food for a date though," he said as if he could read James's mind. "It seemed fitting, considering our history together," he waved his hand between the two of them, "but next time I'll bring something fancier."

"Next time," James countered, "I am cooking." He bragged. It felt good to brag. Just as it felt good to already plan next time.

John grinned over a mouthful of his piece. "It is hot, damn it!" He coughed and washed it down with beer. James watched him with newfound attention. He ate the same way he talked and moved – with emphasis and swagger. Every now and again he shook his head, or used his hand to push back stubborn hair that kept falling forward and intrude on his meal. He wasn't a man one might call beautiful, but there was something in his face, some magnetic charm. Maybe it was his discerning eyes, or maybe how expressive he was whether in a smile, or frustration, or focused on what he was doing at any given moment.

"So, you cook?" he asked having swallowed a mouthful.

"I do," James replied absently, his gaze on John's chest, on his midnight blue shirt. He couldn't stop wondering about John's choice of colors for tonight. "I am a rather good cook, if I say so myself."

A midnight blue shirt and gray pants. Those were the paints James used on that still unfinished picture that stood down there, in his study. Not exactly the same, but the range was close enough.

"That's good. Great even!" John beamed. "I can't cook to save my life. Billy says even my scrambled eggs are inedible."

Who's Billy, James wanted to ask, instead he said, "Scrambled eggs aren't actually all that easy to prepare the right way." The colors suited John. Brought on the sharp cerulean of his eyes.

"I'll make sure to tell him that. He's responsible for this pizza actually." John washed the last of his slice with the rest of the beer and reached to pour himself some more. He paused with a can half-raised. "What? What are you looking at?"

James realized he was staring.

"Nothing." He leaned to get himself another slice of pizza. Then scratched an annoying itch at the bridge of his nose. "I like those colors on you," he explained. "They suit you."

John threw his head back and laughed. "You should know, right?" he said then. "Being a painter and all." Again, he pulled a strand of hair behind his ear. "Do you paint people? Like, portraits? Or... nudes?" He sat back, showing off his chest, covered though it was. "Or is it not your thing, at all?"

An image of John's naked body appeared in James's mind all of the sudden. He could see his hands alright, not sleeved, and they were obviously shaped by exercise, muscled but not overly, tanned. His shoulders wide, stomach and waist narrow. It was fair to assume all parts of his torso were sculpted just as well. However James would much rather touch them, than paint. Where did that thought come from? He thought he wasn't ready.

"No." He shook his head. "Painting people is not my thing. I mostly paint landscapes." His throat felt dry like he traveled the desert for years now.

And in a manner of speaking, he had. He was getting there, he realized, to this oasis of human nearness, at a much faster pace than he would have anticipated.

But then John said, "Quite ironic." James blinked at him and he clarified. "Considering you've locked yourself up inside those walls."

James's brain screeched to an abrupt halt. What did he just hear? John's eyes pierced through him, while James didn't quite know how to respond to such a blunt statement. Yes, it was ironic. It was also none of John's business.

Then John stood up. He walked to the window in slow, measured steps. Hands in his pockets he stood there, just looking outside, for a considerable moment. In complete silence.

If James ever met a challenge, this was it. Get up, John's posture seemed to say. Get up and join me here if you dare. At the same time James could hear Miranda's voice warning him against it. What if he can't handle it? What if he panics? What if he has a flashback and forgets where and with whom he is? What if John doesn't know how to bring him back, how to guide him toward reality?

There would never be a better moment to take this risk though.

James didn't make this decision consciously, at least later, when asked about it, he wouldn't be able to tell that he had. Somehow he found himself next to John, without the memory of standing up and walking the distance. He was only semi-aware of John's eyes on him, intense. He put his hand on the door handle.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he heard a soft question, but he couldn't tell if it was Miranda's voice, or John's.

He didn't know if he replied. He knew he opened the door and felt the breeze of fresh air on his cheeks.

There was a hand on his back too, an anchor to bring him back if he steered too far. He took a step forward, then another, and one more.

"This garden could be beautiful," the voice said.

The garden smelled of dry earth and oxygen and sun-kissed leaves. James turned to look at the person who spoke. Delicate wind brushed dark curls against the man's cheeks, stuck them to his lips. He pulled at the strand and drew it away but James couldn't tear his eyes away from the pale pink, from the delicate specks of stubble above the upper lip, the hint of teeth. The tongue that flicked out for a heartbeat and retreated back, leaving the shining trail of moisture. James's hand shot up, on its own accord without his conscious control, his thumb rubbed against that moisture and then...

A hand grabbed his wrist. "We should go back," the lips moved, formed words that James didn't want to heed.

But there was another hand on his arm forcing him to turn, to walk back into the stifling constraints of the living-room and he couldn't breathe.

He was sitting back on the couch the next moment and John rubbed circles into his back and whispered that it was alright, that he was okay, that he was safe. Breathe. In and out. You're home. James reached for the glass of water and drank it all in one long gulp. The cold of the liquid brought him back to the here and now and failed to wash away the embarrassment.

"I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable," John said as if it was his fault and not James's messed up brain. "Do you want to talk about something else? Anything?" James couldn't come up with an appropriate subject. "Books maybe?" Yes, books were good. They were safe.

How did he let things deteriorate this far?

John stood up and moved away, gave James a semblance of private space, wouldn't witness as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. "You seem to have quite a collection."

Blood still thudded in James's ears, his field of vision was narrowed to his hands, tightly clasped, but it slowly expanded, brightened. Breathing became easier, as John's melodious voice slowly listed, "Munro. Pamuk. Lessing. Mo Yan. Modiano." He was reading the names of the writers in James's library. "Do you have all the Nobel Prize laureates?"

James looked up and he could see clearly again, John standing there, a few feet from him, head raised up, hands in pockets. Stance loose, confident.

"Most of them, yes."

"You read it all?"

"I did. Me and Miranda often discuss things we read. It is a form of entertainment."

"I can see the appeal in that." John nodded with an appreciative twist of his lips. He squinted at something on one of the lower shelves. "Wow, some of them are original editions. May I?" James nodded and John pulled one of the books and opened it, leafed through the pages.

Something unpleasant prickled at the back of James's head. Some troublesome realization. John could have approached the bookshelf from the other side all the same. The whole wall behind James's back was covered with books, from the entrance, to the window. By walking all the way around the room, John made sure James turned away from the window. It didn't have to be spiteful; it most likely wasn't. John didn't have any vile intentions, but it angered-- no, it infuriated James that this kid, this impertinent boy, probably half James's age, had already worked him out to that extent. He could drive him to the verge of a panic attack and then pull him out of it, just like that. With a snap of his fingers.

And what was worse, James knew nothing about John. Not a thing.

John had been testing, watching, analyzing him all evening all the while James was too coy to pry. And he had been given an opening, he had been told to ask all he wanted. Not that he would have learned anything, he figured now. John only shared what he wanted to share. Oh, but he didn't know James, didn't really know him. He may have learned things about him, but what was at the core, the fight, the intelligence, the invincibility. That he couldn't infer from meeting him once.

He wanted a confrontation? He would get a confrontation. He'd better be prepared to lose.

James focused on the book John had picked. He couldn't see the cover from this angle, but he had no doubts the choice was deliberate and that John would somehow tell him what it was any moment.

He was not wrong.

" _El Boa se come a una perra, dijo el muy maldito, por qué no al gordito que es humano.*_ " John read the passage with perfect accent and inflection and James recognized Mario Vargas Llosa's 'Time of the Hero'.

"You know Spanish?" he asked, because John obviously wanted it noticed. "You speak it really well."

"I do. Never read Llosa in original, though, only in English." He closed the book and touched the tips of his fingers to the cover, as if in a caress. It was an act. It was all an act, James reminded himself. He waited to see where John wanted to take this. "First read it when I was at the hospital, right after…" He nodded downward and James guessed he meant after the loss of his leg. His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. "I don't think I really appreciated what it was about, though. All I remember is this feeling deep in my guts, how damn lucky I was, because I'd never been in any kind of boarding school, military or otherwise." He chuckled mirthlessly. Then he glanced at James and continued in a stronger, somewhat ironic timbre. "And I remember that woman, someone's wife, was she? Some high ranking military guy's wife? Her hair kept falling over her eyes and she kept pushing them back. I have this image stuck in my head for some reason. Maybe it was some other book? She was blonde and beautiful, I think one of the boys was… maybe not in love with her, but certainly smitten?" He paused. Picked up after a long while, in a voice much lower, again. "I remember thinking those boys were older. Adults. Not kids, some of them my age. I'm not sure if I ever actually finished reading it."

"If you were... What? Sixteen at the time?" James tried with caution. He had this chance to learn something about John, but the thought in the back of his head kept nagging – this was still only a manipulation. John was still playing him, only provoking questions about things he wanted to reveal.

"Fifteen," he said

"It's a hard reading for a teenager," James admitted. Was there more? "Even though it was in part an autobiography," he tried to get deeper, to take the book as a guide. "People do experience such things, some at a young age. But to read about someone's experience--"

"I know." John cut him off and put the book back on the shelf. He closed this subject. Definitively. Threw James off, just like that. He was a tough player, James had to give him that.

He took out another. "This one I actually enjoyed." He displayed the cover, his face bright and open again. 'A Hundred Years of Solitude' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

"Not a light read either."

"But I was older. And I could appreciate the message. We are all alone and true love can only bring on a disaster." How did he smile saying things like that? Must have been hiding some hurt behind sarcasm.

"Is that so?" James tried to penetrate through the armor and was cruelly fended off.

"Tell me you have a different experience," John deflected with such certainty James felt physical pain deep inside his chest.

Thomas.

"True love can be beautiful," he countered, hearing his voice break even as he spoke. But he pushed through. "It can make you rich. In a spiritual sense. And emotional. And intellectual." He would fight anyone who told him that everything he and Thomas had, amounted to tragedy and trauma and pain and misery.

"Do you love Miranda?" John asked out of the blue, with stunning gentleness.

James had to take a moment to find this feeling amongst all the anguish, and then the name for it. "I do," he admitted. "But it's not her who was my true love. And you're right." He could make a definitive end to a conversation just the same as John. "Disaster is a part of it too." But he wasn't going to talk about it.

Damn it, it wasn't working. He couldn't decipher the enigma that was John Silver and why was he even trying? He had only wanted a no-strings-attached superficial romance with a facile college kid – if he even was in college – not soul-baring discussions about literature and life.

He felt the couch dip beside him. John sat right there, his face two feet away from James's and he smiled in that warm, encouraging way of his. Little shit.

"Do you want another slice?" He pointed at the pizza. "It's probably cold by now, but Billy makes them really good." He took one for himself, then leaned over the table – one hand accidentally on James's knee – and reached to bring his beer nearer. Pulled the strand of hair behind his ear and met James's eyes, unafraid, bold, certain he was getting what he came here for.

He did play James. Analyzed his every move, every reaction. By now, he had him all worked out and what little James knew in return, was no more than a calculated offering. Only what John himself was willing to tell, not an ounce more. Only what he figured would get James's defenses down, would let him another angle to get under James's skin.

And nothing James did seemed to have any effect.

* * *

 * _The Boa fucks a dog, the sharper said, why not the fatboy, he's human at least.  
_ ~ Mario Vargas Llosa "La ciudad y los perros", literally "The City and the Dogs", 1963


	4. Lies (John)

John had made a decision that he wouldn't be considerate about James's traumatic past as he stared at - and admired - James's paintings.

To say he was impressed would be an understatement. Their message, their nightmarish quality unsettled him in a way he couldn't recover from. He needed to know. He needed to find out what happened, needed to understand the creative process, how the incident affected James not just in everyday life, but also his art.

Funny thing that he hadn't even planned to visit the gallery - the endeavor would be too much of a hassle at the time. His leg hadn't yet healed enough to hop on the bike, public transportation brought on certain risks that he'd rather avoid and he hated asking favors. If John couldn't get something on his own, apparently he could live without it.

What were friends for, however, if not to mess with one's principles?

Families were even worse in that regard and what John lacked in biological family, he more than compensated with foster parents, brother and sisters.

Billy started the whole mess, but John couldn't blame him for it. It was no surprise he was sick and tired of John's myriad of hardships. When he wasn't in pain, he'd have his brain scrambled by the opiates. When the opiates let up, he was exhausted from fever. Oh, Billy would never say or do anything; he put up with all the shopping and laundry and all the house chores in the mornings, even though he still had to work every afternoon and evening, while John loafed on the couch and watched tv. That's what brothers do, he'd say. But sooner or later something had to give and he called for assistance.

Madi Scott, the 'sister', had the unnerving habit of compelling John to tell her more than he would have liked - and more than he would tell any other person. She was not his sister by any legal means, but he still called her that. Her father, Mr. Scott was more of a father-figure to John than any other man in the world. He had been the one to introduce John to Latin American literature for example, as well as many other human - and scientific - ideas. He had pushed John to pursue his life goals; to name them even. Had shaped the young man he'd taken pity on, having being assigned his case as a public defender after John's accident. John had been accused of destroying private property of the foster family he'd been with at the time. Mr. Scott had disproved those allegations, then proceeded to accuse the family of neglect and had won John insurance coverage of his rehabilitation and prosthetic fitting. He had saved John's life.

Madi had saved John's life on numerous occasions as well, over the years, having talked him off the edge more times than he dared to admit. Even now. However, she had only just come for a short visit from Washington - a political sciences undergrad - and, John imagined, she'd rather spend time with her real family before she'd have to leave again.

That's why, finally, John's other sister, Eleanor Guthrie, appeared at his door, bearing a solution to his problem. No, not the freckled one, at the moment he wasn't even thinking about Freckles. It was one of those things he'd already decided he could live without. And then Eleanor brought him the money. Richard Guthrie, her father, had fostered John in the final years before he became adult. The Scotts' financial situation would disqualify them as candidates for the system, but Mr. Guthrie had owed Mr. Scott some big favor and neither party ever regretted the decision. Their family had not been one filled with love and affection, but the arrangement made sense on a practical level. For John more than for the Guthries, obviously, but Mr. Guthrie must have seen benefit in it somehow, otherwise he'd never agree. He had taught John a lot about rational approach to life.

John and Eleanor hadn't ever been close friends. Her coming to him now and offering financial support was unexpected. And suspicious.

"I owe your father enough already." John refused at first, anger and shame boiling in his blood, but a smile firm on his face.

Eleanor surprised him even more.

"Father doesn't know about anything; Madi came to me. These are my own money."

John knew deep in his guts that Eleanor was trying to use him as a pawn in her continuous strife with her old man. Being aware of his role gave him some level of control, though, so - upon hearing this revelation - he changed his mind. There were exceptions from the rule of never asking for favors. One such situation was when someone helping him also meant he was helping that person and a rapport built through shared experience could later be used to his advantage. John took Eleanor's offering

"Would you like some cake?" he asked then. "Billy was in a creative mood this morning." He tricked her into staying a little while longer at his place, hoping he would at least get a glimpse into her general plans. He didn't. Eleanor knew that he knew that she schemed, and she was too smart to give him even an inch. However, the subject of the art gallery somehow came up during the afternoon and, lo-and-behold, they made it a date.

Thing was, Eleanor Guthrie was a snob. Modern art was fashionable. Artists were sort of celebrities, and unlike popular actors or singers, they were not celebrities for the masses. They exercised their sophisticated talents only for the benefit of the chosen few. And then the chosen few felt generous when they could support poor artists by adding the works to their collections. Judging by James's house he was anything but a poor artist, but then, the Guthries residence was a few levels beyond that.

Eleanor didn't go with John to visit the Frasier Project in Downtown LA to admire James's paintings though. She went there for Charles Vane.

"I've seen his paintings at Mr. Ashe's residence and they are spectacular," she explained to John on the way. Charles Vane indeed must have been 'hot these days', if Mr. Ashe owned his works - he was a level or two beyond even the Guthries.

"Can I leave you to it, then?" John asked as they entered and Eleanor's eyes lit up. "I'd rather take look at the pictures back there." But she waved him off, no longer interested in talking to him at all.

She aimed straight for one man who stood out in the clump of more or less average-looking people. A lot could be said about him, but certainly not that he was pretty. He had small eyes, thin lips, long hair with thin beaded braids woven in randomly. He wore a tight fitting long-sleeved blouse the color of slate, and way too many thongs and strings with multicolored beads. His pants were tight fitting too and exposed his nicely formed ass and thighs. Okay, so he had some features that were pretty. The extravagant outfit was completed by knee-high boots. Even if he was not a striking beauty of a man, he emanated an aura of confidence and possessiveness that made him attractive, if not downright magnetic. He commanded the room, seemingly without even intending to. Judging by the way Eleanor fixed her hair and straightened her back before approaching him, John inferred this was Charles Vane himself.

Well, he was not interested in Charles Vane.

He limped toward the room further inside the gallery and back there he found more paintings. Most of them - contrary to Charles Vane's works - of conventional kind, save for one batch bordering on abstract, or at least surreal, with its use of unnatural colors and bizarre sceneries. John could easily discern three more diverse styles beside that one, each almost classic: portraits, huge marine scenes and some traditional landscapes.

They couldn't all be James's, their mannerisms were too dissimilar. Which of them were, then? John stood in the entrance, his heart beating faster, and challenged himself to guess. Would he still be as interested in the author, if he didn't like his art? Art was a window to the artist's soul after all.

The portraits were quite terrible, as far as John could tell. Flat, void of emotion, some of the faces crooked. They looked like a carpenter grabbed a brush and figured that since he could paint the chair black, he might also put some colors onto the canvas and have the same effect. With a dose of trepidation John neared the wall to read the name of the author and heaved a sigh of relief. Ronald Dufresne, whoever he was, obviously wasn't named James.

The enormous marine battle scenes appeared to have been painted by a much more competent artist. The proportions were fitting, colors and details of the objects painted were recreated with photographic precision. However, John also wished those were not authored by a James, although for entirely different reason. Those paintings were simply too much. Giant battleships pranced their overinflated sails and threatened impending doom from their very scary smoking guns. Sailors screamed atop the sides and charged at their adversaries with swords and pistols raised. Everything about those pictures was too big, too important, too terrifying and too meaningful. And because of that, as a whole, the impression they left was that of emptiness behind a baroque façade. Some people might be fooled by it, but not John. He wanted something deeper, something with a soul, for the lack of a better comparison. He tried to imagine Freckles painting such things and somehow, it didn't fit any more than the crooked portraits did. He looked at the name, more certain now that it wouldn't be James and read - Benjamin Hornigold. Damn, even the painter's name sounded pretentious.

That left John with a choice between three unremarkable blank landscapes and five aggressive, surreal blocks of color of unspecified theme. Upon closer inspection he realized they resembled landscapes as well, even if they must have come straight from a nightmare of a crazed mind. In comparison, the normalcy and simplicity of the natural landscapes suddenly felt more alluring.

John couldn't decide. The person who painted the quiet landscapes felt like someone content with their place in the world. For a moment John was ready to discard them as presumably not painted by James either, but then he noticed they weren't as realistic as he'd first pegged them to be. Certainly, they were far less realistic than the battleships. They were simply painted in a consistent palette of cold shades -- greens and blues -- contrasted by warm accents and seemed nearly photographic from afar. Seeing them up close though, John found out they were composed of unidentified shapes and smears that formed familiar associations only when combined together. He read a mystery in the fog-like ribbon of misty gold at the feet of presumed forest, or danger in rectangular shapes of midnight blue clouds above the expanse of shadowy fields. Intelligent, observant mind in the few refined details and confidence in allowing the rest of the message remain inferred, implied, rater than explicitly stated.

The colorful landscapes on the other hand made John's head spin. First of all, while the natural ones were painted on horizontal canvas of standard format, perhaps even fitting golden ratio, those five bore proportions much more aggressive - one was too long, one was a perfect rectangle, but the horizon was skewed. Two were vertical and the remaining one was so long it hung below the other four and still took up more distance.

But what made them most distinct was lack of depth and, of course, their chromatic unpredictability. They were, all of them, painted in unnatural shades. Trees were purple or bright blue, sky was yellow, water was pink. Surprisingly enough, those colors matched. No dissonances grated the eye, but the unrest and anxiety were unmistakable. On one of those paintings a scarlet tree branch, cast against the backdrop of pale green sky, bore tiny hands instead of leaves. Some of those hands appeared pleading, others threatening, others yet simply tired. And that was just one element, the forefront of the landscape made of long, steady strokes of various shades of violet and blue. It was beautiful in an unsettling way.

The square one with a skewed horizon was a picture of a body of water, an ocean perhaps, for there was no land in sight. Golden and mocha surface stretched, shining and flat, from one edge to another, motionless, lifeless, save for one maelstrom of angry billows in the center. Above it hung a sail ship, but it was so unlike the marine paintings of Benjamin Hornigold, it might as well be an alien creation. The ship's tangerine sails hung low, like there was no wind and its crimson-bone hull floated above the billowy sea like it couldn't reach the water. Like it wanted to, but unknown forces lifted it out and up and toward the whirlwind of dark blue clouds on the sky the color and texture of brushed steel. And yet neither the anger of the sea, nor the destructive fear of the sky could reach the ship.

John stared at the picture for a long while, until he felt tears prickle in his eyes. The silence of that painting was deafening. The pain in it more than he could handle.

This was Freckles.

James Flint, he read. And then, James McGraw below the natural-colored paintings. Of course. He should have known. After all something had happened in James's life that made him lock himself up in his house. Something that made him change his name, changed the way he saw the world. The way he expressed his emotions.

John wanted to know more, he had to know more. This man's misery was much more profound than his. Perhaps, John thought, he had felt it on some subconscious level from the start and it called out to him unbeknownst. Perhaps, for some sick and twisted reason John wanted to get to the bottom of his despair, to bare it, touch it with his own hands. Make sure another's suffering was deep enough to deserve... What? Compassion? Validation? Or maybe none did? Maybe all the pain in the world was pointless, just a glitch in the system.

Damn it.

Maybe all that pain medication he'd been taking lately had finally scrambled his brain. He shouldn't have come here at all. He didn't need such grotesque ideas in his head, he didn't need to see James Flint's surreal images when he closed his eyes.

He needed to get out of this place.

John didn't run, he couldn't, but as fast as he could, he walked back to the main room of the gallery, intent to grab Eleanor and just leave, go back home and forget all about James Flint and his fucking freckles. Instead, he found Eleanor engrossed in a discussion with Charles Vane. She noticed John and gave him a signal to stay away. It didn't come even remotely as a surprise. If anyone knew how to take care of their own needs and no one else's, it was Eleanor Guthrie. Understandable, really, she had to with a father like hers, but right then John was far from understanding and forgiving.

He wouldn't demand help, of course. He didn't interrupt her talk with Vane, he took the bus home, returned there aching and exhausted and angry and thrown off. Only part of it was caused by physical exertion. The rest -- the anger, the disquiet, he owed to Freckles. He couldn't stop thinking about the man. The painter, the person, the human being, creator, destroyer of John's precious peace of mind.

John made it his goal to pay him back with the same, to make him crave him, to make him need him, want him, be curious and insatiated and disoriented, just like John was.

He had no idea how he was going to achieve that, but he couldn't let another man gain such power over his life, without bearing the consequences.


	5. Lies (James)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR: substance abuse (mixing alcohol with pain medications). I told you this was not a happy fic

"I saw your paintings," John announced and it was the last thing James expected to hear.

"Paintings?" he repeated, like the fool he felt himself to be.

He hadn't expected a mental sparring match with a guy who delivered pizza. Hell, he hadn't met anyone who could challenge him this way, in such a long time, he had forgotten how it felt. Once it had been Miranda. It had been Thomas. They had all kept one another on their toes, it had been a part of their appeal, like some couples take on dancing, others watch movies together – the three of them constantly pushed one another's limits. Now Thomas was dead and Miranda was careful.

James missed that push-pull quality of their relationship, without even being aware of its absence.

Now he remembered. With acute sting in the corner of his eyes he remembered. He recognized the ache, the vast, empty space inside his chest – as loneliness, profound, devastating loneliness. He never liked being alone. He was made to love, to feel, to experience life in the most abundant way possible, Thomas had always said he'd been the most romantic of the three of them. And now he had nothing.

Except for this young man sitting next to him, who broke into his life and kept digging and screaming, until James had to respond. With emotions more than with words, with curiosity, with want.

James looked at John as if seeing him for the first time. John's face was obscured by his curls for a moment, and then, in a familiar now gesture, he pushed them back and tucked behind his ear. He caught James watching him, the corner of his lips curved upward, just barely, and he turned his face away. Fumbled with Milano pizza box, poured himself another beer. Did everything to appear casual, nonchalant.

The way he sat, next to James, but not too close – damn it, James thought with newfound admiration, it was probably calculated to the millimeter as everything he did. If he were just a notch closer, James would have bolted out of the couch by now. That touch a moment earlier, when John reached for his glass, it felt like an electric shock, but was brief, ended almost before it started. Didn't leave a scar.

And now. Now John sat here, as non-threatening as they come and James wondered for a second – then dismissed the notion – if it wasn't all in his head. If it wasn't just his anxiety. John didn't even look at him.

Nothing with John was what it appeared to be.

"I like them," he said in a way that made him seem like a shy, a little love-struck kid. "Well, the latter ones moreso than those from before--" he hesitated, shot a glance at James, looked away, waved his hand. "Whatever it was that caused your agoraphobia," he finished quickly, uncertain.

Pretend uncertain, James reminded himself.

He almost smiled. Oh, so now you don't want to push me too far. Do you want to talk about the paintings? Let's talk about the paintings...

Wait.

What?

James furrowed his brow in confusion. Latter ones? Those from before? How did John know? James's style had changed after Thomas's death, that was undeniable. Vane had said once that it had changed so much, those paintings might as well have been created by two different people and that's why he'd chosen to sign his latter works with a pseudonym. It wasn't likely that Vane or – what was the name of that gallery owner – Frasier – would volunteer the information about the genesis of the paintings or the stories behind them, to a random visitor. Or the fact that James Flint and James McGraw were one and the same.

Most of the critics and buyers knew, obviously, but for someone who claimed not being interested in art, to draw such far-reaching conclusions, was suspicious to say the least. Maybe John had done more than just visit the gallery? Some research perhaps? Did he ask people about him? Not Miranda though, James was certain of it. She wouldn't have left him alone with some crazy stalker person, who only waited for an opportunity to get into his house, so he could...

Stop. This was paranoid. Those were his phobias speaking and James couldn't let them grow too loud in his head. There had to be another, simpler, less scary explanation. James reached for his water and gulped down a mouthful. Cool liquid helped him refocus on reality. On John's words.

"I had doubts, you know." John reached for his glass too, and took a sip. "About which paintings were in fact earlier and which were latter. First impression is that the ones in quiet, natural colors, are earlier, some maybe even painted in open air, despite them having that eerie fairy-tale-ish tone." He paused and his eyes lost their focus, as if he was looking at the pictures inside his own head. "The other ones, those in all the shades of orange and violet and aberrant greens, all that precarious nightmarish feel they have – it looks like they were created as a response to some--" he searched for the right word. "Some transformation." He looked to James for acknowledgement. "But is it the correct assumption?"

James stroke his beard to buy himself some time. Where was this headed? Oh, he wouldn't give John a hint. Let him talk, let him show, first, what was going on in that curly-haired head of his.

"Maybe it's the other way around?" John played along, his eyes glued to James's now, in search of clues maybe, or just trying to hypnotize him. The melody of his voice certainly had that hypnotizing quality. "Maybe those insane colors are your normal style, and natural visions only came to be, as a manifestation of you missing the expanses of the world out there? Maybe this is the paradox, the calm in contrast with the disturbance inside your mind. Which is it? Which is the truth?"

James reached for his glass again, took a sip and put it back. Yes, he wanted the truth as well. About a different subject matter – why was John so interested and how did he know so much? He leaned against the back of the couch without a word.

"You aren't going to help me out here, are you?" John asked mirroring his move, but took it just a notch further. He turned fully toward James, pulled up his leg – the fake one; James could just infer the shape of a metal rod instead of a sheen when John readjusted its position, could see some sort of rim around his knee. He leaned his elbow on the headrest, scratched below his chin in contemplation, then rested his cheek on his folded palm. He was facing James now, eyes bright, chest and pelvis open, his knee almost touching James's thigh. They were half an inch apart, but James felt their proximity as a tingle under his skin. He didn't move away. No; he reveled in it.

"That's okay." John gave him a smug smile. "I'll find out anyway." It sounded almost as if this was exactly what he wanted. He didn't want James's clarification, he wanted to talk. Him talking now was just another way to peel off layers of James's defenses and crack him open like a passion fruit.

James decided to let him. He couldn't deny that the way John spoke about the paintings was fascinating. Add to it the awareness that his own works were a subject of the tale made them fascinating by association. James had never heard anyone, save for professional critics, talk this way about his art. But then, the critics lacked the passion John clearly had. He spoke in a quiet, measured tones, but that passion simmered underneath, like a river under the crust of ice. Dark, powerful waters.

It wasn't just vanity, though, that made James want to listen. No; he was pretty sure that once John felt secure enough in his perceived superiority, he would let his overconfidence get the better of him and he'd make a mistake. All James had to do was pay attention and use the opportunity the moment it presented itself.

"Let's take the one with the hands for example." John begun, serious now. Calculating. "It's a tree branch. Hands are leaves." He closed his eyes briefly. "There are a lot of trees in the background too, a whole forest of them. You painted forests of various kinds on all three natural pictures. Some of those trees were closer and masterly refined. The structure of the bark, the way leaves grow from the branches." He blinked. "You have the intimate knowledge of what a tree looks like." He met James's eyes again and that unnerving intensity was back.

James wiped his hands against the fabric of his jeans. They were sweaty. He tried to remember that they were only playing a game here, but he felt on edge. He reached for his water – it became like a tether, meant to ground him, and at the moment served as an excuse to avoid looking at John. In a corner of his eye, James noticed that John repeated his gesture as he had before, then shifted in his seat, put down his leg and rubbed his knee. Inhaled a lungful and exhaled audibly.

"That knowledge is in your head now," he picked up. "You don't need to look at a tree to paint it – and make it seem convincing. And it's not just the trees." His eyes glazed over again, one hand absently massaged the knee, while the other pointed, as if to a picture only he could see. "In the scene with the ocean, you painted a fragment of an old, wooden house. It is thorough, the structure of the walls, the window frames, how the shade of the roof hugs the facade. There is a different house in the background of the scene with the horses. This one is like an afterthought of a house, a symbol rather than the real thing, because it is in the distance, but one may acutely feel that intimate familiarity you've already gained with this item."

James realized he held his breath listening to John's tale. Enchanted. That was the term. Spellbound. He took in a breath, but did it quietly, so as not to disturb the teller.

"The horses are the main theme of this one, so that's what was studied in it. And then, in the last of the three, the waterfall themed picture, a man on a horse rides through the forest. The animal is partially obscured by the trees and the bushes, but there's no doubt about its shape, the curve of its neck and back, even the effort of striding through the uneven terrain.

"Those, the house, the horse, they are just details, but there are larger scale elements too, like the mountains, water and of course all kinds of plants. Once they are understood, analyzed, you bring them back – in various forms. It goes for the abstract paintings as well, you play with scale and proportions, but you use those same elements, and others, but all of them with that certainty of things you know very well. Except for one painting. The ship." John's eyes fell on James again, piercing blue, and James's heart lunged and tugged in his chest. The question – how did John infer all this? and why? for what purpose? – became more urgent.

"Your abstract paintings are mostly made of shapes, smears of color in shapes that resemble the real thing. Except for this one. It is exquisite. Meticulous. Planking of the hull, all the ropes, the railings, gun ports, creases of the sails. It even has an anchor and that dragon-human hybrid figurehead with quite a disturbing grimace on her face." He paused. Let the emotion of the description dissipate in the air, then continued in a more even voice, "But you painted another sail ship also – at the horizon, on the ocean, there is a blur that is supposed to be a boat and a sheet. But it's undefined, proportions all wrong, too wide, too bulky. It's barely there, not really noticeable, so it may slide. But it's clear that this was you painting something you were not yet acquainted with. I can bet my right leg that this miniature ship has been fashioned before the surreal one. And that's my proof that your surreal paintings are later and the realistic ones – are earlier." He looked at James with an odd mixture of yearning and bitterness, but then he blinked and the impression was gone, his eyes clear blue again, smirking even. "Tell me if I'm wrong."

James took a moment trying to decipher what he just saw and if it wasn't only his imagination, like before, but he came up empty. What could John be bitter about? He had no answer.

"Okay," he sighed. "I am creep-ed out now," he said, instead of confirming or denying the accuracy of John's analysis. "How many hours, exactly, did you spend in that gallery. And why? I'm sorry, I have to ask that. Is it some... stalkerish obsession thing?"

John snorted, genuinely surprised by this accusation, even offended.

"What? No. I... I was there fifteen minutes. Maybe." He didn't see anything unusual in how in-depth his little thesis had been.

"Fifteen minutes?" James repeated. "And you noticed all those little details and you made those connections and whatnot – all in fifteen minutes." There it was. Something in John's face shifted, some embarrassment-like expression, a fleeting moment. Then John brushed his hand through his hair, let them fall and cover, no, hide his face. Reached for his beer, shrugged.

James finally had him. John finally made a genuine mistake. All James had to do now, was not let up the pressure, not let him recover and put his guard up again. "Sure seems more like a week to me," he sneered. "Which, don't get me wrong, I am flattered, but you have to admit it is a little weird."

"Well, no. I mean, yes, but... I was there for fifteen minutes, honest." John pushed the hair back a little, met his eyes. He was trying to cover up. He didn't want to be seen like a crazy stalker, but what excuse could he possibly have? "I was thinking about it later, too," he admitted. "I remembered some of the details now." If he hoped that would make things less awkward, he was mistaken.

"Now."

John opened his mouth and closed them with an audible click of his jaw.

"Yeah." Ran his hand through his hair again and they fell, tangled, chaotic. "The house and the horse at the waterfall," he mumbled "I didn't notice them at first. Just," he sighed, scratched his chin. "Yeah. I kind of have eidetic memory. I'm like that with pretty much everything." There was this bitterness back again, now unmistakable in his voice.

For a moment James gaped and wondered – so this was the big secret? This was the whole mystery? Eidetic memory? It was impressive, but felt a little underwhelming after his suspicions of John stalking him and possibly being a threat.

Then he looked at John again and his mind did a double take. He couldn't dismiss what he'd been told. He'd just gotten a glimpse of the real John; this was a gift he couldn't reject or it might not be offered again. He didn't even care about John's admission itself, of being unusually smart – nor was he surprised by it – no; it was the resentment linked with it. The anger firmly wrapped in layers of overconfidence, veracity that felt strangely insincere, and lighthearted, self-depreciating jokes.

Smart kids often did that – hid their talents, so they could easier assimilate with their peers. So they wouldn't be noticed. So they wouldn't be different. Sometimes, as a result, they entirely wasted their potential, only to later in life regret their choices. Was that the case with John? There was certainly some deep hurt he was hiding. Another thing was his offhand mention of a boarding school, earlier. Few vague puzzles that made up a picture, not yet complete but convincing, for the timebeing.

Of course James could be wrong – after all John was full of surprises – but right now he didn't have the luxury of considering other answers. His window of opportunity was quickly closing, gears in that quick-thinking head turning fast, coming up with a way out, making sure that whatever pained him remained a secret. If James wanted to use the leverage he momentarily had over John, he had to do it now.

"What do you do?" he asked.

John gave him a What do you mean? shrug as a response.

"A job," James clarified. "Being a pizza delivery guy can't be your dream career, can it?"

Again, for a fleeting moment James saw raw emotion in John's eyes. A frightened caught-in-the-act expression. Again, it was a blink and you miss it moment, his face became impassive then. He took his time before he responded; all of two heartbeats of time. And in that time somehow he regained full composure.

"Frankly, no." He beamed, but his eyes screamed, War. "I'm not doing that anymore. Figured, I want to reinvent myself. Try something new. Being a pizza delivery guy is good for when you're in high school." He looked composed on the outside, but internally he was not as levelheaded as he'd tried to appear. He talked too fast, slurring words and too much; provided more information than he had in the previous hour. James internally patted himself on the back. They were on even terms now. He could play that game, finding another man's weakness and exploiting it. Hadn't done it in years, but with great satisfaction he noted that he wasn't as rusty as he'd feared.

"Well, I bet," he allowed himself a hint of mockery. "Have you finished high school at least?"

John made a face like James slapped him.

"Yeah."

"Ever thought about pursuing education?"

John balled his fists in his lap. "Education's not my style really." His voice changed; it was clipped, his breath shallow, even though his face remained relaxed, save for the tension around his eyes. "You know," he flicked his hair to the side, squinted, "why are we even talking about this?" He shifted gears again, his tone deeper now, huskier. The switch wasn't as smooth as before, but abrupt and fast enough to catch James unawares.

All of the sudden John was well within his personal space, his fingers smoothing the line of his jaw, eyes burning, mouth slightly parted. "We should be doing this instead," he breathed out. The pad of his thumb pressed agains James's lower lip, then slid between his teeth, and James's body reacted on its own volition, leaving his conscious mind in the dust. He licked John's thumb, then closed his mouth around it and sucked. John's eyes, so close to James's face now, were bright blue, so bright they seemed like they shone the light of their own.

Something was wrong with this picture.

But James didn't really want to dwell into what, right now. His brain still hadn't caught up with his instincts and his hand shot up, fingers deeped into John's wild curls, relished in their silky softness, while the other hand colided with John's chest, his senses overwhelmed with the feel of firm muscles against his palm. John inched closer, their lips touched, James inhaled a lungful of John's scent and...

His brain woke up.

John smelled of alcohol. He hadn't drunk that much, less than two beers really, but he was clearly under influence. And what was worse – the thing that didn't sit right with James – his pupils were pin-point. That's what was wrong, caressing like this, kissing, his eyes should have been black with desire. They weren't. He was on something. And if anyone knew the effects of mixing prescription medication with alcohol, it was James.

His heart hammered in his chest but he knew he had to remain calm. He didn't want to spook John right now. He put both his palms against John's arms and pushed away gently. The question, Are you still taking any pain meds? was on the tip of his tongue, but he opted for something else. What was it they talked about just a moment ago? Ah, school things.

"No, you know," James shook his head, John now at arms length. "Education is important," he stated like it was some universal truth he had just discovered.

John pushed back, blinked, surprised. "Fuck you," he replied. Then, "I'm outta here," he spat and sprung to his feet.

Or rather tried to spring to his feet. James didn't even manage to think that he fucked up, instinctively he pushed himself up as well, intent on stopping John. He couldn't leave now, he wasn't in his right mind. And he found himself standing over John, instead of in front of him, when John flopped right back to the couch as his legs refused to cooperate.

"Ough," he sputtered.

"Are you okay?" asked James, unable to hide his concern any longer.

"Yeah, I--" John gripped his knee. "Fine," he uttered and winced, confused. Blinked several times. "Just a lil dizzy."

James sat right back next to him and sighed. Alcohol, when mixed with opiates was absorbed much quicker and more effectively, if that could be said, than normally. No wonder John didn't feel steady on his feet.

"Are you still on Vicodin?" James had to know. He tried to be gentle, but John gave him a look like he accused him of murder.

"Is none of your fucking business," he seethed. "But yeah, when I'm in pain, I sometimes take something. Which reminds me--" He reached into his pocket, pulled out a vial, shook a pill on his palm and threw it into his mouth in a gesture quick enough that James didn't manage to stop him. Then he gave James a glare and washed it down with a mouthful of beer. "It helps, you know. Give me a few minutes and I'll be off your plate."

This wasn't what James wanted. This wasn't it at all. How did it get to this? What did he say? And how was he supposed to fix it? He tried to glimpse a fragment of the label to make sure it wasn't something even stronger than Vicodin, something that when mixed with alcohol could be deadly and his stomach twisted in knots. Regrettably, he was not wrong. The letters, upside down, amounted to 'something -codone'.

Well...

Fuck.


	6. Lie (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably warn you about the lack of James in this chapter (there is Madi instead). Sorry? 
> 
> On a more serious warning note: there are traces of depression and a hint of self-destructive thought process bordering on suicidal indeation. But it's mild, I think.

Most of the time since his accident, John tried to avoid painkillers. He would rather tough it out, even if the pain was so intense he couldn't make himself completely ignore it, than have his thought process altered by opiates. Often it was not possible, of course, but Vicodin in his first aid kid had been a measure of last resort.

Current slump started with an infection. Or maybe the infection was a result of John's irresponsibility. Or maybe it couldn't actually be called that: after all, if he hadn't worn his leg, he'd be even more irresponsible. He wouldn't be able to work, he would need Billy's help getting to and from school – considering that Billy had enough household duties as it was, it would be unbecoming a friend – and the result would still be pretty much the same. At least where school was concerned. His health might just be in a little bit better condition than it was at the moment.

The thing was, John figured he could just grin and bear it and somehow manage to escape harm. He had pulled through worse after all.

No such luck this time.

First, waiting 'just a couple more days because I don't have the cash right now' to buy a new non-tattered liner, resulted in chafes on his meat limb. That was the first warning. Equipped with anti-inflammatory over-the-counter meds, John had hoped for the best but in hot weather it was a matter of time – a short time at that – before blisters formed. The moment John noticed them, he should have taken time off the leg. Too bad that he had exams that he absolutely had to attend. Leftover antibiotic salve he'd had from some previous similar disaster was supposed to help with the worst of it. He took care of himself, he really did. Well, at least he tried. He just needed one week, only a week, then he would give himself a break. Unfortunately, his body gave out sooner than that. Humidity finished the job, causing skin breakdown and giving a perfect environment for the bacteria to thrive. At that point, infection was inevitable.

Once it set in, everything went downhill. A week later, Billy gave up trying to get through to John and employed the help of one Madi Scott.

Truth was, anyone would have trouble getting through the haze of pain mixed with painkillers, mixed with sleep deprivation and fever. Madi came about ten minutes before John's alarm was set to let him know he was allowed a moment's respite in the form of another dose of Vicodin. He barely recognized her.

"You're in Washington." He reached up to touch her face, half convinced his fingers would find no resistance, and go through, like through a ghost.

"I just came in, this morning." Madi took his palm in hers, her brow furrowed funny. "What is happening with you?"

"It will pass," John uttered.

If she said anything it was lost to his brain, suddenly overwhelmed with tearing and squeezing and twisting and burning of the nerves that had the misfortune of being too near to the inflamed spot in his miserable leg. He had a vague idea that he squeezed her hand a little – or maybe a lot – too strong and then a cold cloth on his forehead and soft indiscernible voice.

And then, like salvation, the beeping of the alarm.

Billy had made John swear that he would not take Vicodin more often than every four hours and, for once, John agreed. The danger of damaging his liver or kidneys or whatnot, still had him frightened, so, even though the analgesic effect of the medication wore off in less time, he bore the agony. Long forgotten were notions that opiates altered perception, dulled his thoughts and made him talk nonsense. He would gladly give up his sanity, if it meant he would be free of all the pain.

John knew he frightened Madi. Few minutes later, once the pill started working but before it scrambled his brain completely, he attempted to ease her mind.

"I'm fine," he begun but she didn't even let him expand the thought.

"You are anything but fine, John." She grabbed the empty glass from his hands and put it on the low table next to the couch, with unnecessary force. Then she grabbed the remote and turned off the tv. John had taken possession of the couch in the living area of his and Billy's small apartment. The hum of the nonsense in the program made him feel less lonely, didn't require any higher intellectual functions and would keep his mind sufficiently occupied for a while still, after Vicodin started wearing off. He'd rather have that now, instead of – as he feared – Madi's lecture. He wasn't wrong.

"Obviously those medications you take are not working," she begun, taking a seat on the couch, next to his aching leg. An echo of the pain pressed up his thigh. He controlled his breath so she didn't notice. "There are stronger medicines, John, why do you--"

"This is quite enough," he cut her off. "You know I don't take them lightly. But just because I caved in, because I had no choice, it doesn't mean that I will give up my soul entirely and go all the way up to hardcore narcotics."

"You are taking hardcore narcotics, John. They are all narcotics. But the purpose of pain medication is to eliminate pain, so where is the sense in taking any of them, if it is not doing the job?"

Maybe nothing made sense, John thought but bit his tongue. He didn't want to scare her, by saying things like this. Nothing made sense, it was all pointless, he should just take a handful– Stop. Brain, stop. "I have prescription for Vicodin," he whispered, eyes firmly shut, his breath coming in and out in short gasps. He forced himself to calm down, blinked a couple of times and managed to focus his gaze on her.

She was concerned despite his best efforts.

"Why didn't you tell your doctor you needed something stronger?"

"Maybe because I have trouble getting to a doctor?" he snapped and regretted it immediately, at the look of hurt on her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude." Madi was a great friend, the best he had. She didn't deserve to have the burden of his misery thrown upon her shoulders. None of them deserved it, neither her, nor Billy, not nobody.

She leaned in, and smeared something wet on his cheek. It took a moment for John to realize it was his own tears.

"I can take you. Or I can make a phone call, perhaps it is as simple as calling the doctor to change your prescription? Then I can go and get it for you."

John didn't answer. Now that the waterworks started, he couldn't stop them and he was afraid that if he spoke, he would just start sobbing and he would tell her everything, it would all just spill from his mouth about how his life was over and how he hated himself and his fucking leg and that he'd rather have died way back when, than be a burden to everybody now, without any prospect at evening the balance, ever.

"It is more than that though, is it?" Madi asked. Of course she did, she knew everything without him saying a word. How did she do that? "You should have done that yourself and I am sure you would have, but there is something else troubling you, is it? Something else occupies your mind." She kept stroking his arm in a soothing back-and-forth and then clasped his palm in hers. He let her intertwine her fingers with his. "Tell me."

"I'm tired Madi. I'm just exhausted."

"No, it is not that."

"It's nothing," he tried one last time. He genuinely didn't want her to worry, but she was one of those people who wouldn't let up until they found out the truth and he didn't have the strength to fight her. "I failed at the Uni." He couldn't look her in the eyes.

"What are you talking about?" She countered. "I spoke with Billy and that was the first thing I asked. How was the Uni? I knew you just had your final exams and Billy said you were doing fine, as ever."

"I was." John shook his head, helpless. Suddenly it was too heavy, so he let it roll on the pillow. The ceiling above him rocked from side to side, like a ship on high billows. "All was just perfect, until the exams started. Damn, for four years I had the best grades in my year. I was supposed to finish a Valedictorian. But I didn't. I passed Relativistic Quantum Field Theory with flying colors, of course, but back then I still felt fine, this thing was just starting. After that, everything fell apart. For Axiomatic Sex Theory, I went pumped up to my gills with Vicodin and I fucked it up." There was a crack in the corner between the ceiling and the window wall. Huh? "Set Theory. I said Axiomatic Set Theory, did I?"

"I am pretty sure you did not." Oh. "Listen, John. Billy told me your worst result on tests was eighty three percent." Madi sounded genuinely flabbergasted. "So I really do not--"

"Exactly."

"That is hardly a failed exam!"

"You don't understand."

"I understand. It is your ego, isn't it? You have to be the best, or be nothing at all, am I right?"

"You don't understand."

There was no point explaining. Yes, he wanted to be the best. For four years he had been. But it was never about his ego and Madi, of all people, should know that. It was because of her father that John had even started college. He had finished high school a year later than he should have and it wasn't only because of his accident. Before meeting Mr. Scott, his grades had been terrible. He'd never seen much purpose in trying. And then Mr. Scott had opened his eyes, had talked sense into him, had told him that in the present world people were judged on merit or distinction, and if one wanted something more than merely survive, they needed to do something with their lives, especially with assets like his – intelligence and stubbornness. In his case – an orphan and a cripple – those things could make a bigger difference than in the life of an average person. At the moment he'd met Mr. Scott, John had been on a straight and narrow toward social assistance and then the streets. Out there, even his survival would not be certain.

From a kid who had failed and had to repeat his sophomore year in high-school, in less than ten years John graduated to a sure-fire candidate for Cal-Tech Valedictorian. It would have been a dream-come-true and a thank you gesture to Mr. Scott at the same time.

It was not about the ego. Nor was it about showing off. It wasn’t even about survival alone, John was past that fear – at least he thought he was. Lately, it started to gnaw at his intestines again. John knew his limitations and he was well aware that university doctorate was the best career choice for him. One that would utilize his strengths – his intellect, his ability to learn and apply the knowledge – while almost entirely discounting his physical shortcoming. He didn't need a leg to do a comparative spectral analysis of galaxies in the Local Supercluster. As a Valedictorian, he would have had all kinds of choices. Professor DeGroot held a spot for him at a fucking Keck Observatory in Hawaii. Now Joji would get it.

But anything, really, any university would have welcomed him with open arms. He might stay at Cal-Tech, and the funds he'd get would let him achieve that other thing that mattered no less than securing his future. He could pay his debts. The money would allow him to do the research for his PhD, be able to sustain himself and, in addition, begin to pay back Billy, Mr. Guthrie and Madi's father. It would even leave enough for him to finally start to properly take care of his health and just stop worrying about whether to buy a new fucking liner, or pay the rent, or put the money in the savings account to be able to pay for college and all that without any additional work.

God.

Yes, the problem wasn't that he didn't finish his undergrad studies as the best in his year. He would have been just fine being the fifth, or even tenth. The problem was – and that Billy didn't know about, so neither did Madi – that he didn't finish at all. And not because of his exam results, or because he'd given up, not at all.

It happened because he got sick. Because his body betrayed him and he couldn't work. He couldn't work, so he didn't get any cash. In the end he came a couple hundred bucks short of his tuition and since he had already been past every possible extended-as-a-favor-to-Professor-DeGroot deadline, he got removed from the students list, exam results notwithstanding. Administration had its own set of rules and paying on time was the most important of them. Oh, John had called his Professor last night, while deep in the throes of fever. He had cried and begged, which was something he had never done before. And he knew DeGroot hadn't though any less of him, he'd tried his best to help, but all he could get was a promise that if John's tuition was paid in full before the next fall term, John would receive his Undergrad Diploma.

And perhaps it could happen. Perhaps he might try and make it on time, but at the moment he didn't even see how. His illness made a dent in his savings, so he was going to have to earn that back, Billy had been paying rent all by himself for a while now, John wasn't even sure how long. John had promised things would change after graduation – and he'd failed to keep that promise. Time worked against him, new obligations piled up, one over another and he couldn't see the end of it.

He didn't even dream about PhD anymore. Time to register for graduate studies was right now, this week. There was no way he could stop the time and get it all done while the world stood still and waited for him to catch up. Miracles simply didn't happen.

"You don't need a miracle, John," Madi said with half-reproach, half-concern.

John blinked at her, confused. She heard him? When did he start talking aloud? Damn Vicodin.

"All you need is ask for help, why is it so hard for you to understand? We love you, we care about you."

"I owe your father enough already," he rasped.

"What about Mr. Guthrie? Legally, he's responsible for you."

"Only until I was eighteen."

"You know he doesn't feel that way."

"I do."

Madi's brow creased and she squinted at him in a moment of silence more meaningful than words. When she spoke, John knew he was about to lose whatever fight he tried to put up against her.

"I do not believe you are doing this to yourself, John," she said. "Giving up? Is that what you are trying to do? It is not like you. You are not a quitter. Remember? Remember what my father said, what I myself admire about you? Despite everything that happened, despite all you have been through, you always get back on your feet. Figuratively and literally. You are the strongest person I know. Now," she stressed each word separately like it was its own sentence, "pull yourself together."

John closed his eyes to block her fierce glare. Maybe he wasn't strong anymore, he thought, maybe it broke him? Everyone had their breaking point, maybe this was his, maybe he finally had enough? He wished he could close his ears too. Because even as he was thinking that, as he was trying to wallow in self-pity a little while longer, her words hit exactly the right buttons. This was how he operated. This was his way of dealing with whatever life threw at him. Get up, dust off, put on a brave face and stride forward. If he needed someone's hand every now and again, well... Perhaps Madi was right and sometimes it was okay to show weakness in front of your closest friends, in front of people you could trust.

He glared right back at her. "I hate you," he said, but she knew he lied.

She helped him get the medicine he needed, she talked to Eleanor, who got him the money to pay for school. His friends rallied around him, supported him through the worst of it. The least he could do to thank them for their efforts – at least until he would be in a position to actually pay his debts – was to get his head out of his ass and start to live. No more complaining, no more unattainable dreams, just get back in the game and if something dragged you down – cut off the ballast.

If a disaster happened and it couldn't be fixed – you had to ignore the repercussions and simply move on.

Unfortunately it was easier said than done and some things, even when ignored and forgotten, had this ugly tendency to come back at the least appropriate moments and bite you in the ass. John had wanted to pursue career in science far too long to completely forget about it in a couple of weeks – especially because there was no other option on the horizon as of yet.

Somehow James discovered that, somehow he managed to hit John right where it hurt the most and throw him for a loop. John really, really didn't need some old looser to educate him on the importance of education.


	7. Revelation (James)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is the final chapter, I wanted to take this moment to give a great, heartfelt thanks to all you lovely souls who supported me all this time. Most of all to [hithelleth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/pseuds/hithelleth), [ellel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ellel/pseuds/ellel), [pianka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pianka/pseuds/pianka), [El Diablito](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF), [thewalruscaptain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nightly_division/pseuds/thewalruscaptain) and [CelticArche](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticArche/pseuds/CelticArche). Your encouragement gave me wings. 
> 
> I hope you will all enjoy the final installment.
> 
> El Diablito -- I really tried to give it some semblance of a happy ending. I'm sorry, but this was all I could do toward that end... :/

"I think you need to calm…" James started in an attempt to get John to stay, to make sure he'd be supervised, in case something went wrong, but he got cut off.

"What about you?" John launched an attack. "You're an artist, right? But are you certified, do you have a diploma that says you can paint?"

"As a matter of fact I do." James nodded. Yes, talking was good. Dragging John into a discussion, whatever it was about, diverting his attention, could very well serve his purpose –he would stay put. "I received Masters of Fine Arts at Lancaster University. Many years ago."

"Great Britain, right?" John sniffed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What brought you to US?" His hand shook.

He was way off kilter. James needed to find out what kind of pills he'd taken.

"My friend was a doctor," he replied absently. "Both of them actually, him and Miranda. They thought US had better research facilities, that's why we came here." He watched John watch him. "What reminds me..." Suddenly he reached toward John's other hand, still wrapped around a vial. "What was that pill you took?"

John completely ignored him, batted his hand away unceremoniously, like it was some annoying bug. "What field of research?" He hadn't lost his focus. "What friend?"

"This is not really your business, I'm afraid. Will you tell me--"

"He's the one who died, right? How did that happen?" This angle of attack threw James completely off.

He froze, then, "Don't..." he tried to warn.

"Somewhere outside. That's a given." John narrowed his eyes. "In a brutal way."

"You'll regret this." James whispered. His heart was already making somersaults in his chest and he felt numbness at the base of his skull. There were things he didn't think about for a reason. He didn't need a reminder. He didn't want those memories.

John opened his mouth, paused, then closed them. Something in James's voice must have gotten to him, finally. His chin trembled and James couldn't help but wonder how much of it was pretended. He wanted to slap John to order. He imagined himself hitting his jaw, strangling, shaking him and had to curl his fists and take a couple deep breaths to eradicate those images from his mind. This was not what he was supposed to do and certainly not what John needed right now.

"I already regret it." John's voice broke and he curled in on himself, head bowed, arms wrapped around his middle. For a moment he remained like this, then wiped his face. "This is not how I wanted this meeting to go." He met James's eyes, reached to touch James's cheek, tentative, shy. "We weren't supposed to end up this way, arguing, threatening each other." This was his game again, James saw it for what it was. John tried to give his voice sensual timbre but all he got was slurred. He wasn't in good enough shape to pull it off anymore.

James grabbed his wrist and squeezed hard. Too hard maybe. "No," he spat through clenched teeth to make his intentions clear.

"Come-on." John's face twisted, his voice quivered. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"No." James repeated. "You're far too wasted for my tastes."

"Am fine."

"What have you taken?"

James had to find out. This might be really important, especially judging by how quickly John was now unraveling.

"Was nothing." John leaned back against the couch, wiped his face once more, like he wanted to wake himself up. "Just something for the pain." His voice was getting more and more slurred, words meshing together. "But it's not really pain, don't feel... It's..." He blinked several times, eyes set on the table, but unfocused in a disturbing way. "You've had worse pain. It's there, in your art. There's so much pain and I want to get soiled in it." He rubbed his hands all over his body.

"What?" James gasped. What the hell was this guy raving about?

"Because it's real. I mean if I compare. The realness of it. Is real."

Damn it, this kid wasn't making any sense.

"You should get some rest," he muttered.

John turned to him and glared with such intensity – hatred, bare-naked rage – that James felt like he got physically punched in the solar plexus. The emotion got quenched as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a familiar, if a little skewed, calculating look. Changes in John's mood could make the most patient man's head spin. James still didn't know shit about him, he had no ground on which to anchor himself in relation with this man.

Perhaps he could just quit it and forget about everything. Just tell him to fucking leave, right now, and never spare him another thought. He should do this, for his own sanity. John's head seemed to be as much a mess as his own and throwing the two together could result in a disaster.

But maybe this was what he wanted? James wondered what pulled him to John and if it wasn't this deja vu – like feeling of looking at himself in a stranger. Perhaps he needed that disaster, perhaps he subconsciously longed for such catastrophe to finally happen and claim him.

Perhaps he and John were meant to destroy each other, finally finish what was started years ago, be each other's end.

"I should go," John muttered but didn't attempt to get up this time.

"No, you don't." James reached to touch him, hesitated, then let his hand rest on John's bicep. "You can stay here, it's okay." His hand wandered upwards, pushed John's hair out of his face. "I don't want you to leave. I want us to continue this conversation, okay? The one we had. Once you're rested. Please, stay." His hand remained hovering next to John's temple and John leaned into it, his eyelids fluttered closed, his breath ghosted against the ball of James's palm.

If only he was sober, James sighed. Damn, John was right, he wanted this, he wanted this closeness, this touch, this kiss... John's tongue licked along his life line.

"Whoa, slow down."

Not like this.

John blinked. "Uh. Sorry." He didn't appear very apologetic. "I'm being stupid here. Is not me, is probly those pills talking," he slurred.

Pills, James remembered with a sucking sensation somewhere in his stomach. He let it slip his mind. "Will you tell me what you've taken?" he asked quiet now, gentle. Maybe even resigned.

"Is nothing bad." John pulled himself out of James's reach, let his head fall against the headrest and roll, eyes closed. His words were mumbled, barely discernible. "Just maybe not best idea to have them with beer." He chuckled, then coughed softly, once.

"Let me see," James asked and as he rummaged in John's pocket, he found next to no resistance this time. Oh, John tried, but he wasn't very effective, waving his hands about him.

James produced a vial and read the label. Oxycodone. "Damn it, John. What were you thinking? These and alcohol? It may kill you."

"Yeah? So?" John's eyes were now open, as if he made a special effort to call up the last of his consciousness.

"So?"

"Who cares?" John shrugged. Then lifted his palm but it acted like not his own. It flopped helplessly back to the couch, as he spoke, "Would you? Care?"

That chill numbness at the base of James's skull squeezed, like some ghost dug its merciless gaunt fingers under the bone. Would he care is someone died in his arms? Again? He wanted to hit John, the urge stronger than before but his muscles completely slack, inert. Yes he wanted this thing to end in a disaster, he remembered, but only if he was the one to die first. "Yeah, a would," he didn't recognize his own raspy voice.

John's lips spread in a smile. "Ah, you love me." His eyes drifted closed. "Sweet," he was entirely in his own head by now.

"Shut up." James shook his head, anguished. "Just stop talking."

"Mmm'kay," John consented and shut his mouth, let his head drop to his chest.

No, James thought, then, "No!" he jumped to his feet in sudden terror and grabbed John's face. "I mean don't, don't stop talking. Keep talking. John. John!"

He slapped John's face, gentler than he'd previously imagined, but all he got was another murmur. John was out cold. James, all frantic and frightened, turned to search for his phone and realized that John took a hold of the hem of his shirt. The grip was hard enough for James to realize his life wasn't in immediate danger. He thought his heart would rip out of his chest.

Slowly, he pulled his shirt from John's grasp. He struggled to even out his breathing and he watched John's face for any reaction, but he didn't get one. John slumped to the side and James had no choice but to pull him down further, until his upper body reclined on the couch. He checked the pulse, breathing and resorted to only watching him for the time being. Took off John's shoes – for a heartbeat there he got startled when his fingers met with the hard edges of metal screws instead of flesh, through the fabric of John's sock. He almost dropped the leg, but got over himself. Breath in, breath out and he continued tending to his guest. Brought a blanket and wrapped it around John's hips and shoulders.

John didn't relax even in sleep. A frown marred his forehead, deep lines around his lips spoke about pain and grief.

And yet, John was not a sad and bitter person. In fact, first impression when they met was that of an easy-going, relaxed youth with not a care in the world. He was confident, he was quick to laugh, playful, had all the positive traits one could think of. Were they only a mask? Tight, well crafted, fitting so well it seemed like a natural skin, but a mask nonetheless.

One thing James learned about John for certain was that he was closed off and he wouldn't share easily. Correction – he wouldn't share at all. He'd rather desensitize himself, than allow himself a moment of openness.

Would James really want to bring him down to his level of despair? Would he ask John to open his wounds and... What was it he said? That he wanted to get soiled in James's pain... Would it be fair to let him?

A stray curl fell across John's cheek, and James, in an uncommonly tender gesture brushed it away.

* * *

For a few minutes – perhaps close to an hour actually – James sat in an armchair next to John and simply watched him sleep, trying to solve this puzzle that was this young man. When he felt himself begin to drift off, he got up and made himself some coffee, grabbed a book and returned to his post. John was breathing evenly, his life was not in danger. He just needed to sleep it off, but James wanted to be alert, just in case.

It was still dark outside when John started to stir, then moved his head to the side, opened his eyes, furrowed his brow.

Then bolted upright.

Then groaned.

"Oh, my head." He sat on the edge of the couch but tension was evident in his movements. He leaned his elbows on his knees and tangled his fingers in the locks, squeezing his skull.

"Yeah," James said with compassion. "I bet the word 'hangover' doesn't really cover it, does it?"

John gave him a fiery glare from between the curls.

"What time is it?" he groaned

"Half past three."

"Shit."

"Indeed."

For a few moments John sat, panting through the haze of pain. James poured him a glass of water and he gratefully downed it in a few long gulps. If he felt as miserable as he looked, it must have been really awful being him at the moment. His face was wrinkled and his hair stuck in every direction, ruffled and unkempt.

"Have you sat here half the night?"

"Not like I had much choice, what with you mixing drugs and alcohol."

"Fuck." John hid his face in his hands. "I'll have you know I normally don't do shit like that."

"Am I bad influence then?" James tried to turn it into a joke, but as it was half-hearted, it fell flat.

"Nah, it's..." John shook his head, winced and groaned. "My life is generally on a downhill slope right now," he sighed. "A lot of things. School, work... " He hesitated, stared at his fingers for a moment, twitching, wriggling. Then came do a decision. "I think I owe you some explanation."

"You don't have to," James tried, but John ignored him.

"I finished high-school. Just recently got Masters in maths and applied physics at Cal-Tech."

"Wow." James didn't even try to hide his esteem. "Two fields at the same time."

"They're close enough," John downplayed it, but he couldn't be more wrong. They might have been close, but they were two different things and difficult ones at that. He was brilliant. James let him have his moment of self-depreciation though and didn't say anything. "For a moment it all hung up in the air though, because--" John vaguely gestured to his leg. "But then my… My family humiliated me. They paid my debts." He pursed his lips. He wasn't even looking at James now and that's how James knew he was getting the real John right here. His real frustrations, his real fears. "It mattered a lot to me," John picked up after a stretch of silence. "School mattered, the fact that I got there all by myself. That I could achieve something, in spite of the odds. But I was wrong. Odds are what they are. And I really have to... I meant what I said, I have to reinvent myself. And I will. That's what I do. I don't let things deter me, save for small stumbles like the one you just witnessed." He finally looked up and James had never seen so much determination in anyone. "I am really sorry about it," he said with profound sincerity. "It is a bad moment for a relationship." He finished what he surely considered oversharing.

He was wrong, though. James didn't know how he knew that, but he was dead certain that John was wrong and this was the best moment for a relationship between them. He wanted this relationship, now even more than earlier. He needed John. Maybe, he thought, not because of a disaster looming at the horizon. Maybe on the contrary – he needed that determination, that ability to get back on his feet, no matter the hardships.

And, he thought with sudden empathy, maybe John needed to allow himself to feel his pain after all. Maybe he was wrong in always trying to be tough and pretend-happy. Maybe he should sometimes simply be human.

"It's your right, of course, " he said eventually. "to decide what you will do. But I disagree. I think no moment is bad. And you obviously want to be together. Why deny yourself what you want?"

John gave him a long, dissecting look. "Did we... kiss?" he asked.

James heaved a sigh.

"You wanted to. And I wanted to as well, to tell the truth, which is kind of a big deal for me." It wouldn't hurt to be honest, for once. Everything they did so far was manipulation, but right this moment James decided to lay himself bare. "I still do, I want to kiss you. One day, maybe soon. But we did not kiss earlier. You slept and I watched that you kept breathing."

John shook his head and hid it in his hands again.

"I can't remember when I was last this embarrassed," he mumbled.

"Obviously you had your reasons. It's alright, I get it. Sometimes the world is just too much and," he paused, because he saw in John's eyes raw panic. John was about to contradict, to argue, but James raised his hand to silence him. "Sometimes it is okay to let yourself be weak. Sometimes you just have to admit you're in pain. And I don't mean physical pain, because it's not about that, is it?"

"Not anymore," John choked out, looking at him in awe, as if he revealed some holy gospel to him. Or like he'd never heard a blasphemy like this, presented like it was the truth. Because it was the truth. And he needed to learn that as much as James needed to learn that he could have his life again. That's why they needed each other.

A small smile danced on John's lips. "I should probably get going," he said, but his tone revealed that he'd rather not.

Still, he stood up. Slowly, carefully, but he didn't sway. James found himself on his feet as well, ready to assist and relieved it was not needed.

"Will you come back?" he asked.

"Are you sure you want a mess like me around?" John brushed his hair away from his face. "I don't think you nee--"

"Don't." James cut him off.

He took a small step forward, closed the distance between them. He now stood right in front of John, well within his personal space. He could feel the heat radiating from John, his breath on his face, even though John tried not to breathe. "Don't tell me what I need." John tilted his head upward, his eyes glued to James's and James slowly, very slowly, lifted his hand to John's face. He cupped the side of his cheek, felt the scratch of John's stubble against his palm. Dipped his fingers in the thicket of John's locks. John's eyes darted between James's eyes and his lips, his nostrils flared, his lips parted. James leaned in and closed them with his lips.

He fought the urge to close his eyes and immerse himself in this experience. To only become touch and smell and taste and to absorb the energy that was John. But it was not the time for that. Not yet.

He pulled away the moment he felt John's tongue try to reach into his mouth. Savored primeval desire in John's startled, indignant eyes.

"Come back," he commanded.

And he knew he would be obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is it. This is the end. If you enjoyed this story – now's the time to tell me about it. :) If you don't, I will not know that you liked it and I will be sad and I will think that I'm a bad writer and I will believe that I should take up knitting instead of, you know, struggling with words that don't make much sense. Actually, I believe that anyway, only when someone tells me I don't suck, I take a momentary respite from that feeling.
> 
> Too bad that I love writing so much that nothing can discourage me from continuing to do it, so... I probably won't take up knitting. But. You can tell me you like it anyway. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :)  
> 


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